


In Death We Trust

by zvii



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1920s, Alternate Universe - Gang World, Character Death, Death Eaters, Don't worry, I've been working on this for so long, M/M, Slow Burn, but its not really anyone too important, i guess, made up world oop, not 6000 years tho, pls tell me you got that reference, so aesthetic, the 1920s were amazing, the death eaters are a gang, there's violence, this is inspired by peaky blinders lmao, you won't die
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:28:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23662342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zvii/pseuds/zvii
Summary: Northester is steeped in blood. To dance with death is but a normal occurrence. Violence blooms like a malevolent flower, its petals unfurling into every corner of the country, and Tom Riddle stands in the center of it all. How much blood must be spilled so one man’s hunger can be sated? What is left for the city to learn, except for pain, death, and the cold taste of blood?Is blood really thicker than water when so much of it has been spilled?
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20





	In Death We Trust

**Author's Note:**

> Oh wow. I'm so happy that I'm finally posting this!! I haven't really updated/wrote anything after the shit show that was my first "official" Harry Potter fanfic on this site. But hopefully, this time, this will be ok. Can't guarantee updates tho.

**I**

**Third Street, First Quarter, Northester**

“Mercy…” 

Peter Pettigrew whimpered on the ground, blood pooling around him in a mocking rendition of a halo, his hair stained a dark red. 

“Please…” 

“Pleading now are we?” A dangerous smirk stretching across Tom Riddle’s face. “Not so brave now that you’re bleeding on the floor now, are we?” A knife, loosely held in his hand, trailing down Pettigrew’s neck. 

“My lord… please…” 

“You beg so prettily, but it’s rather useless.” The knife trailed dangerously close to the beating pulse in Pettigrew’s neck. Pettigrew’s whimpering became more pronounced, his words no longer comprehensible. 

“It is funny though,” Riddle mused, and he idly twirled the knife around in his hands. “As soon as you got the news that I had stolen some guns you go running to Dumbledore. I dislike traitors. And you are most definitely a traitor aren’t you, hm?” 

“No… no… my lord… I would never  _ dare _ .” 

“But yet you ran to Dumbledore when you got wind of the stolen guns, did you not?” Now, the knife pressed harshly against Pettigrew’s left arm, drawing blood. 

Pettigrew let out a strangled gasp. “Forgive me, my Lord… please…” 

“Traitors don’t get mercy do they, Pettigrew? Traitors need to be taught a lesson.” Riddle wrenched open Pettigrew’s mouth. “And traitors don’t need their tongues anymore do they?” 

Tears were falling rapidly from Pettigrew’s eyes, his whimpers incorrigible. 

And then Pettigrew screamed. His mouth pooling with blood, it seemed to him that the iron taste of blood was the only thing that he had ever known. His mouth was burning. Burning with such an intensity of pain that he seemed to be drowning in its fiery depths. 

Blood spilled from his mouth as Riddle crooned in his ear, “Oh, I’m not finished with you yet.” Fearful eyes started into deep burgundy. Pettigrew tried to scream but all that came out was the brilliant splash of scarlet blood. 

“Perhaps I should skin you, tearing it off bit by bit, relishing in your screams, hm?” Riddle said, stroking Pettigrew’s face, the blood smearing on his face. 

Fearful eyes stained with tears looked back, blood bubbling out of Pettigrew’s mouth. “Oh no, no, no, you can’t die on me yet Pettigrew,” Riddle said, raising a burning hot poker, and searing Pettigrew’s severed tongue shut. His body shook, silent screams racking his body, tears pooling down his face. 

With a twisted grin, Riddle carved into Pettigrew’s left arm. He relished in the warmth of the scarlet liquid, the sinful feeling of it on his hands. Gently, almost reverently, Riddle cut out the dark mark that had marred Pettigrew’s left forearm. Wiping the blood off on his hands, he stood up, and left. 

“Throw his body in the ocean” 

**Forgotten Quarter, Riddle Manor, Northester**

Scars littered Riddle’s back. Old, almost forgotten. But he could never forget them, no, they were burned into his body and etched into his mind. Each one a reminder of just who he was. Of who he became. 

He used to be nothing more than a bastard, a filthy secret, never to have known the light. 

So, he turned to the darkness for his solace. The darkness was everything he had ever known. And in turn, he became the darkness. He became the monster hiding in the dark recesses and forgotten corners. 

He became feared. God had rejected him, but the Devil had welcomed him with open arms and gifted him lavish promises. And he had gladly accepted the offer. 

He lied, cheated, and murdered. Until the day he had pointed his gun at his father’s head. Its mouth wide and gleaming. His lips pulled back in a victorious smirk, deaf to the empty pleas escaping the man’s mouth. Oh, but how beautifully his father had begged. Begged to his bastard child to spare his pathetic life. It was the most beautiful symphony of sounds that Tom had ever heard. The cacophony of sounds coalescing into its roaring climax. He hadn’t blinked, hadn’t even flinched when he pulled the trigger, warm blood splattering on his face. 

He licked the blood from his fingers, it tasted sweet, and at that moment he had felt like God. He had felt like the God that had so rejected him, and from the recesses of hell he had been given a taste of heaven. 

**Northester Express**

The Northester Express let out a puff of steam as it rattled down the tracks leading to the nation’s capital. Police Inspector Alastor Moody sits in a private cabin, scanning the files of multiple people suspected in the stolen guns off of the Third Quarter docks in Northester. 

Lucius Malfoy. He’s smirking in the picture, his arrogance obvious. 

Lord of the Malfoy family, served in the army when he was the heir to the Malfoy fortune. Returned home with several awards commending him on his bravery in the field. 

After coming home, his father mysteriously fell ill and died several days later. His mother also killed herself by flinging herself down their ancestral home. 

The same day, Lucius Malfoy was named the lord of the Malfoy family, making him one of the richest men in the country. 

**_Suspicious of money laundering, racketeering, and murder_ **

**_Suspected of being the leader of the Death Eaters_ **

  


There’s a knock on the cabin door, and the ticket inspector walks in as Moody is putting the file on the table. He flashes his badge, and simply says, “Government business.” 

The ticket inspector tips his hat at Moody and closes the door behind him. 

Moody picks up another file, this one says Tom Marvolo Riddle. He had served in the army along with Lucius Malfoy. He came home with the highest award that can be awarded in the military. The  _ Stellas _ medal. He’s handsome in his picture, his hair pushed back into his face. Raised in an orphanage, a bastard child between some street urchin and Tom Riddle Senior, a wealthy man who lived in the First Quarter. 

Tom Riddle Senior was murdered not long after Tom Riddle Junior turned sixteen. 

**_Suspicious of racketeering, bribery, armed robbery, and murder_ **

**_Connected to the Death Eaters_ **

Alastor sighed, catching the Death Eaters would not be an easy task. They were cunning, and their network expanded so wide that Alastor was not sure of its scope. The only reason that the government had even realised that the guns were stolen so early was because there was a mole in the gang. This mole was supposed to meet them at an abandoned shed on the outskirts of town, but Alastor was sure that the man would get cold-feet and leave at the last second. 

Putting down the file, Alastor pinches the bridge of his nose, he would have to organize the police force when he got there. Mobilize them. Search every nook and cranny of Northester to find Lucius Malfoy. Find him and drag him in for interrogation. 

The train rattles along on the tracks as Alastor stares out the window thinking of his plans. 

**Forgotten Quarter, Near the Harbor, Northester**

Peter Pettigrew’s body is long gone. Swept away in the waves. It won’t wash ashore for another three months. Tom Riddle is standing on the harbor, watching as a ship docks, his men unloading its precious, precious cargo. Guns. So many guns. And its all his. All his to use. To sell. To make profit. 

Riddle’s smile turns sharp, he would become untouchable. He was Tom fucking Riddle, and every single person in this damned country would know his name. They would fear him. 

Of course, there was the problem of Dumbledore to deal with. The old man was always trying to throw a wrench into his plans. Riddle was sure that Dumbledore was sending Alastor Moody to deal with all these stolen guns. He laughed, it would be fun to finally taste the thrill again. He was getting bored, and Alastor Moody was the perfect entertainment. 

Riddle laughed, these coming months would be so  _ fun _ . 

**First Quarter, Northester**

In the settling dust from all the commotion on the street, there’s a small figure walking through the dirty streets. It stops at a bar called Seventh Street, and pushes the door open to walk in. 

The bar man stops and looks up. “Excuse me? Do you want anything?” 

“I want a job here,” The person replied. 

“You sure? You seem new, the boys would be all over you. You don’t know the sorts that frequent here don’t you?” 

“I assure you, I will be more than capable”

“Your name?” 

“Harry Potter” 

**First Quarter, Train Station, Northester**

Alastor looked down at the address in his hand. He had never been to the First Quarter, too much crime happened here for the Chief Police Inspector to come every time a murder or a robbery, or some other illegal activity happened. 

He would have to ask for directions. 

He walked toward the only building with any sign. Seventh Street Bar it was called. He opened the door. 

“Another one? God, where are all these new people coming from.” 

“My name is Chief Inspector Alastor Moody, I’m here on government business. I was wondering if you could show me the way to this address?” 

The bar man wiped his hands on his apron and muttered something but nonetheless stretched out his hand for the piece of paper in Alastor’s hand. 

Alastor gave the man the address. The man’s eyes widened a fraction, then told Alastor the directions. “Now get out,” the bar man said, pointing towards the door. “Get out, and don’t come back.” 

There was genuine fear in the man’s voice. Alastor nodded and left. 

The warehouse is quite obviously abandoned Alastor noted as he stared at the decrepit building in front of him. Pulling out his gun he stepped cautiously inside. Immediately he was hit with the stench of something dead. Decay. Rot. It flooded his nose, and he very nearly gagged. 

There on the rotting floorboards was a tongue. Next to it, surrounded by a puddle of blood, was a forearm. 

**Author's Note:**

> Rip, poor Alastor. Imagine seeing that on your first day in a new city. Rip.


End file.
